The Pull

never used the room we had
    to grow sunflowers
instead, it rained
    drenching your curls

flattening my face

green filled the space
     but yellow never surfaced
lost in tall grass, i cried
     you rode the leaves into sky

i waited, below

winter came, all was barren
     your breath chilled my bones
i sucked in your air
     like when you vacuumed

like a madman

yet crumbs, hair, lint, and dirt

     remained

i lay on black carpet
     with a blue heart
you stare with black eyes
     whirlwind of dust drags me
all the way back to you
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Wanderer

Wanderer. I dream of parallel places, things, realities, I daydream into the night. If I am not here, with you, I am somewhere else, alone. You become fuzz, like the static channel on the TV. I picture that, not this. Hope for a better future, past, present. Wanderer. The grass is greener when my face is. Have you ever felt like a color? I always thought you’d be blue. Wondering what happened to your smile, I dream of lush gardens with plants for teeth. You are there, somewhere. Wanderer. I don’t know where I am, but I know you are here. I feel the stubble of your chin, the freckle on your nose, the warmth of your face, your blue blood. We are here, eating leaves, ever so careful not to pick sweet fruit.